Porcelain Fists
by jane-eliza
Summary: Don't let her break - she's so close already. Where is it she goes, when those sad eyes close? PeterxClaire, future!fic.
1. i

**Porcelain Fists**

_By CJMx_

---

**i.**

He found her in her old, ramshackle apartment. The floor creaked as he treaded gingerly across it, the wallpaper long since torn from the damp walls. It was pitch black, apart from a poky strip of light glowing out from the bottom of the bathroom door. Peter followed it, and pushed open the door. There she was; sitting naked in the vast bathtub full to the brim with what Peter could only assume was her own blood. Her knees were drawn up to her bare chest as she stared into thin air; goosebumps spreading like wildfire across the open plains of her exposed skin. Peter's heart broke.

Still treading gingerly as not to scare her, he padded over to the bath. A strong waft of rusting iron met his senses, and if he'd had any doubt beforehand, Peter was now certain that the murky crimson liquid she was bathing in was in fact her own blood.

He reached out towards her, and took her wrinkled hand in his, pulling her up and out of the tub. She followed his actions obediently, rising from the dank pool of her own immortality, and he instantly threw his jacket around her.

Within a blink, a sudden pull of weight descended upon her, and within another, she found herself in Peter's hallway. The blazing lights added an unnatural rosiness to her clammy skin as Peter guided her down the passageway. Stopping by a door, he swung it open, and gently ushered her into yet another bathroom. She stood still as he bustled about her, checking for fresh towels and soap, and placing a folded shirt upon the counter beside the pristine hand basin. Peter felt her glassy eyes follow him as he reached to turn on the shower, before he wheeled round and slipped his coat from her shoulders. In the light, he could now see the extent of her suffering. Blood stained her entire torso, and Peter knew that if it weren't for her healing, bruises would mask her from head to toe. He swallowed hard, and shook the thought from his head. Taking her hand once more, he led her into the steaming shower, ahead of peeling off his own clothes and joining her, although both knew there was nothing sexual about the situation.

She stood facing him, eyes locking on his as he took a deep breath. Then, wasting no time, Peter picked up the soap, and started on her shoulders. The water trickled down her body, washing away all the impurities before swirling down the drain, dirty and grimy and bloody and vile. Her skin was caked in layer upon layer of filth, and Peter scrubbed and scrubbed. He inhaled sharply, and decided to risk conversation, though careful to pervade her strong guard gently.

"I've missed you, Claire."

She stiffened slightly, remaining silent as he continued. "It feels like a lifetime since I last saw you. I s'pose we've just been busy with other things…"

Still her silence persisted, but Peter didn't pry. "Your hair's nice brown. I preferred it blonde, but I guess a change is nice once in a while."

He curved round her protective stance, and started to sponge her stomach. Claire watched fixedly as he swabbed and scrubbed away the grunge coating her body, her reclusive posture beginning to falter somewhat.

"You know," Peter remarked, the hint of a chuckle coating his words. "This reminds me of when I was a nurse. I used to have to bathe my elderly patients – but not that you remind me of one!"

When his smiling eyes slunk upwards to meet hers, Claire's raspy voice sounded out and broke him in a way he never thought possible.

"I was 87 in April."

---

She sat in his warm, pressed shirt, gazing up at his reflection in the mirror as he stood behind her, brushing out her damp hair. She hadn't said a word since mentioning her age, her defensive walls pitched back up. Peter dragged the comb through her tangled locks, root to tip, while she knotted her fingers together in her lap. He hummed a soft tune, calming her uneasy spirit, and along with the therapeutic strokes of the comb, the tension between them simmered.

"Peter?"

Her small voice drew his attention. "Mm?"

"Why are you doing this for me?"

"It'll be a nightmare to untangle it once it's dry, Claire."

"N-No, not that," she stammered, her blunt words clotting on her tongue. "I meant, why are you saving me? I don't deserve it."

Peter's hands lowered from her hair, and he met her vacant eyes in the mirror. "Don't say that, Claire. Everyone deserves to be saved."

She simply stared back, her expression blank, as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "And besides, by being your hero, isn't it my job to save you?"

Her eyes glimmered with a sudden batch of tears, and he twinkled back, before returning to her dripping hair.

---

When he carried her to bed, Peter could have sworn he saw her smile. Granted, it was brief, no more than a split-second long, but it made his heart swell and his mood lift. He set her petite body down, and tucked her in. Claire let out a soft sigh as her head hit the pillow, her green eyes flickering as they struggled not to close. Peter pulled a nearby chair up beside the bed, and sunk into it. His hand reached out, reverently stroking her upper arm, and she peered seriously back at him.

"Promise me you won't leave," she whispered, her eyes wide with apprehension, not daring to sleep with the possibility of solitude.

He leaned towards her, pressed a chaste kiss to her temple, murmured a soft "I'm not going anywhere," into her ear; and her eyes had already fluttered shut before he could pull away.

---

_Based on the Ingrid Michaelson song of the same name – listen to it, it's good, and fits in perfectly. Thank you to Bethany for proofing. Review, please?_


	2. ii

**Porcelain Fists**

_By CJMx_

_---_

**ii**

The following weeks brought change between them. Claire was still quiet, still hesitant, but there was now a warmth, and slowly she began unfolding to him. Peter took salvage in the little things - brief smiles, diffident touches, conversations that perhaps were not meaningful, but allowed him to delve a little deeper into her mystique. As the days wore on, her reclusive attitude gingerly dissolved, and Peter could see glimpses of his Claire starting to return. They'd spend just about all their time together. Peter would wake to long, brown hair splayed across the pillow; and Claire would drift off to slow, gentle breathing in her ear.

He soon discovered there was a push and pull amidst them. As Peter cooked for her, bathed her, sent her to bed feeling safe; Claire in return would let him further into her world. He learned about her time at Pinehearst as he served her a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. He learned about the loss of her parents when he cut down her fingernails after a bath. He learned about her many, many suicide attempts as she lay, tucked up in his arms in the dark.

One particular morning, after they had finished discussing the day's weather (a conversation that both had found a painless way of quashing the newly-formed morning awkwardness), Peter presented Claire with her routine breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. She picked at the eggs, nibbled at the bacon, whilst chatting idly away to Peter about anything and everything.

"… I wanted to go once, but my husband didn't want to, so we didn't."

Peter's brow creased as he poured her a glassful of orange juice. "Husband?"

"Mhm," she burbled softly, pushing the eggs around her plate. "You know, Harry."

"Er, no."

Claire's eyebrows wrinkled to mirror Peter's, looking up at him. "No? Oh! No, I guess you wouldn't, then. Well, I have a husband – _had_ a husband."

"When was this?" Peter questioned, and perched himself at the place opposite her.

She shrugged. "Not long ago, six or seven years perhaps. Harry van der Rohe. Lawyer, part German, part English, though born and bred in Manhattan."

Peter watched as she mused over her memories, sifting through the reminiscences of her time with Harry, her aged green eyes glassy.

"In retrospect, to be honest, he was a horrible man…" Claire finally spoke, breaking her silence with a faint mutter. "He was hateful, selfish, arrogant – you get the drift."

"Then why did you marry him in the first place?"

She shrugged with a wry smile. "I suppose I loved him."

Peter paused. _Nathan hadn't mentioned anything about a wedding… _Which was understandable, Peter soon realised, as the man had been six feet under for the past God-knows-how-many years.

Not tearing his gaze away from the patterns he was tracing on the tablecloth, Peter spoke. "So, did you two get a divorce then? You know, if it wasn't working."

He looked up to see Claire shake her head, dark hair fluttering. "Nuh uh."

"No?"

"Nope," she replied casually, her voice light and breezy. "He died in a car accident thirteen months into the marriage."

Peter's lips formed a small 'o' when she looked up, a rueful grin playing on her lips. But his eyes met hers, and they glimmered with tears. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head again. "No, don't be. That's the very reason I left – I couldn't deal with the pity anymore. So I upped my sticks and I ran."

He met her sorrow smile with a slight nod respectfully, and she stretched out her arms. "So what about you, Peter? Any wives? Or husbands, y'know, if that was your thing."

"Nope, none at all," he twinkled back, unable to stop himself from breaking into a wide grin. "A few girlfriends – no boyfriends, mind you – but nothing exactly… substantial."

"Good thing?"

Peter raised and dropped his left shoulder, a minimal shrug. "Some ways yes, some ways no, I suppose. I just never found the right person for me."

"Mm…" Claire murmured in agreement. "Anything exciting? Apart from saving the world and stuff, obviously."

He sighed, and ran a finger around the thin rim of his glass. "Not really… After Nathan and everyone passed, nothing really escalated to anything. Life became a blur, you know?"

She nodded surely. "Everything else just became death, natural and easy and soft and peaceful. But then there was me, very, _very_ alive. Black and bleak and bloody and more and more life… No wonder suicide became appealing."

A peel of wry laughter rang from deep in his throat, hoarse and forced as if he hadn't laughed in a long time. "Hard times, hm?"

"You have no idea," Claire replied with a droll curl of her lip, before letting out a weary sigh. "Peter, do you ever wonder when our stories will begin to take a turn for the better? 'Cause I think we're owed a happy ending…"

Peter's mouth twitched into a grave smile, and he tried his best to hide the vacancy in his eyes as he answered her. "To tell you the truth, Claire, I can't see there being an ending for us at all."

And she didn't dare look up for her dead eyes to mirror his.

---

_Part deux, as you can see. Part deux of trois possibly. I enjoyed writing it too much to stop, I suppose. Reviews, as always, are much appreciated._


End file.
